


clarity in spoken truth

by CandleCradle



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, F/F, F/M, Family Issues, Fluff, Hanamaki too sassy for his own good, Issei just deals with it, Iwaizumi done with everyone's shit, M/M, Multi, Oikawa thinks its the aliens again, Psychic Bond, Psychic Memeing, Slow Burn, mentioned Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-02 04:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10209515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CandleCradle/pseuds/CandleCradle
Summary: In the wake of what was perceived as a dream or vision, four strangers suddenly find themselves growing mentally and emotionally connected.  While trying to figure how and why this connection happened and what it means, these four strangers embark on a journey to comprehend their own individual struggles and use one another to build a foundation for the future.But when things go awry, sometimes even a fated connection can fizzle away into nonexistence.





	1. more than a string of fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than anything, this first chapter is to give everyone a taste as to how their psychic bond is triggered.  
> All subsequent chapters will be considerably longer in length, and featuring more than just a sleeping Hanamaki. /orz 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story, all kudos/comments/bookmarks are greatly appreciated! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> This work is moderately inspired by the Netflix show _Sense8_ , but don't worry none you absolutely don't have to see it to understand the story!

* * *

 

 _Friend of mine_  
_Direction of a different kite_  
_Whether with me whether somewhere new_  
_Know that I'll be seeing you_

_I'll be seeing you_

-[Portrait 19](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MhkoOYX4HMM), The Paper Kites

  

* * *

  _10:43 A.M. – Meiji University_

 

Someone is watching him sleep. It’s a distinct feeling- that prickling chill on the back of his neck.

Tooru is standing beyond his sleeping body. His breathing is slow and even and his eyes are lightly shut. Hunched over the books and papers on the desk, his head resting gently on his arms. He's definitely lost track of time.

He’s still in the library basement, but the automatic lights in his corner have flickered off. While not completely dark, it’s dim enough to be unsettling. Only the soft spill of light from the other side of the room illuminates his face in shades of grey. It’s cold. He’d believe that to be the source of his earlier chill had there not been someone watching his sleeping form. A woman.

Maybe this is all just a dream, maybe he doesn’t actually hear her speaking just beside him, can’t see that odd gaze she’s looking at him with. Hair greyed with time spills over her shoulders as she leans forward, ghosting a hand over the curve of his back. He’s scared. While his breathing may be even, he knows his heart is racing. This woman... he has the sickening feeling that she’ll soon be dead. The shadows play across her gaunt face as she crouches down beside him.

Tooru doesn’t know why, but lurches forward as she makes contact with his sleeping form. She brushes back the tousled hair at the crown of his head, joy tinkling in her eyes, and whispers something he doesn’t quite catch. _“—our of you.”_

 

He wakes with a start, his subsequent jolt upward engaging the automatic lights. His chest feels tight and he’s broken into a cold sweat but as he looks around him there is no woman in sight. No sign of one ever having been there except a forming migraine where her hand had made contact with his forehead. His own hands are splayed across the papers before him and there’s a long moment of chasing away paranoia.

Tooru settles down, blames it all on too much caffeine and not enough sleep. He really hasn’t been getting enough sleep.

Before him are lecture notes for his physics course. A puddle of drool soaks through the top corner of his formula page and Tooru grimaces as he wipes it away so it can dry. He’d been studying since late last night; having been too nervous to sleep for his test today he’d come to the campus library to get a few extra hours work in.

Except now, as he feels the stiffness in his arms and neck, and the terrible tingling in his tailbone, he realizes that maybe he should’ve just studied while back at the apartment. Tooru pops a few rusty joints, rolls his shoulders and cracks his knuckles. Sleep had claimed him a little after five in the morning, and waking from a nightmare hadn’t been the best thing. He still feels exhausted.

All sentiments of exhaustion however, are thrown out the window when he checks his watch.

Tooru doesn’t think twice about shoving all the flyaway papers into his bag- or the rather loud expletive that he blurts in the quiet ward of the library. He’s sprinting out of the library and across campus to the building where his test begins in fifteen minutes.

 

* * *

   _10:44 A.M. – Mishima Island Docks_

 

“Hurry up, Matsukawa!” Captain Uchizawa claps him on the back as he passes by. It fucking stings. Issei winces but attempts to smile through the pain. But then he’s worried that expression makes him look constipated. That worry is very well vindicated as Captain Uchizawa laughs at him before hopping off the boat.

“Get those shrimp to the stall before the storm rolls in!” The bastard calls over his shoulder. 

With a sigh, Issei stares at the six buckets full of shrimp. It’s not as if they had a good haul in today- but that’s still a shitton of shrimp for him to take back by himself.

“I’ll help you.” Irihata holds him firm by the shoulder upon seeing Issei's soul seemingly flee from his body. Irihata’s barely holding in his smirk and Issei hones in on the amused corner of the wrinkled mouth that’s begging to turn upwards. His own brow twitches in response. 

“Thanks old man," He grins wryly, "don’t pull a muscle though. I don't want to have to carry you back home like last time.” At Irihata’s affronted whack on the back (on the same fucking spot _shit that hurts)_  Issei leans down and hoists a bucket of shrimp up off the deck. 

The walk up the pier grows more and more crowded as they approach the seaside market. No matter how tall and imposing Issei is, the nearly prehistoric women and greying men jostle against him in the crowd and he _oh so_ doesn’t want to accidentally knock someone over with a bucketful of smelly shrimp. Desperately trying to avoid some beer bellied fishers, Issei is stuck standing in one spot before they pass.

But then he notices a small figure through the crowd. Someone also standing still, but facing him further down the dock, his line of sight interrupted by passerbys. _An old lady?_

She’s smiling. That’s the first thing he registers. The second thing is that she’s staring at him. He’s not sure how, because for some reason Issei’s sure of it. Which is odd because the old lady is also not Asian. Issei doesn’t know anyone not Asian, except those American fishermen who sometimes come to trade at their docks. The bones in the old lady’s face are too angular to be anything but European, however. Her eyes are almond-shaped and blue. Over the deep creases of wrinkles he can make out the light smattering of freckles all on her pale skin. Unsettlingly pale skin. He has half a mind to think of her as a ghost.

Through the crowd Issei faintly notices her lips are moving. He takes a step forward, bumps into somebody and stops.

He can’t hear her over the crowd. 

Then, he can’t hear the crowd- there’s only the blood rushing through his ears.

For a terrifying second, Issei is in absolute silence.

 

“Move it Issei!” Irihata runs into him from behind and Issei lurches forward while the old man's shrimp bucket is rammed into his lower back. He nearly trips over his feet and wipes out before regaining his balance. The plastic bottom of his own bucket scrapes the cement, the noise causing him to cringe.

The sudden return of the uproarious crowd starts the beginnings of a migraine.

Belatedly steadying his footing, Issei starts forward to the stall again. When he looks back to where the old lady was, she’s gone.

They make it to the market stall and Issei and Irihata deposit the shrimp buckets behind the counter. They make two more trips of the same variety without any other weird sightings and then return to the boat a final time for cleaning. The decks are swabbed and the nets are folded and locked away.

By noon, the storm clouds have successfully chased them back onto the mainland. The first drops of rain feel cool battling the humidity and sweat sticking to his skin. After a solid minute though, Issei is unfortunately drenched to the bone and freezing. Irihata returns to the market stall to negotiate for their wages and Issei himself begins the trek up the mountainside back to their home.

The entire way he feels the need to check over his shoulder.

He never does.

  

* * *

_10:47 A.M. – Kitasato University_

 

Is he the only one who is seeing this crazy woman? Hajime flashes concerned glances towards his classmates. Nobody has seemed to have noticed her. Which makes absolutely no sense because she’s practically standing in front of their professor.

To be honest, he didn’t even seen her come into the room. Didn’t hear her enter either, which is even weirder because their classroom door’s hinges scream louder than a cat in a fight. He just looked up from taking his notes and well… there she was.

“There are four of you.” The woman breathes. He hears her voice as clear as day, as though all other sounds had ceased to exist. The smile on her face makes Hajime uncomfortable because she’s only looking at him despite there being over fifty people in his lecture.

 _I’m pretty sure there are more than four people here, lady._ The woman’s eyes widen and her grin becomes impossibly brighter. Hajime curiously tilts his head. Her shriveled hands clasp in front of her heart.

“Only four, my dear Iwaizumi Hajime.

But don’t worry, you’ll be able to find one another now.”

Hajime straightens in his seat with a frown. He looks around at his classmates again and his frown deepens. The same vacant stares at their professor, bored doodling in their notebooks. Is he just hallucinating this old woman here? He might be. He's been under a lot of stress.

She hasn’t gone, just standing there looking at him as if he was her own child. It’s cute in a way, Hajime’s always found old people cute, but he’s also feeling out of his fucking mind right now.

He doesn’t even hear the lecture anymore, he’s focused on keeping eye contact with this old woman. _Who are you?_

“Karlotta.” Is the immediate reply. Hajime releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

_Oh my god I’m a psychopath._

Karlotta lets out a hearty laugh. The wrinkles around her eyes deepen as she throws back her head, curled grey hair billowed behind her like a cloud. It’s only now that Hajime realizes that she’s in a hospital gown. He feels his stomach drop in dread.

The old woman stops laughing, wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. She fixes him with that warm gaze again and opens her mouth as if she is about to say something-

Hajime is bounced back to reality at the sound of students snapping their textbooks closed and leaving. He looks about frantically at the emptying classroom, catching a few people’s eye are they send him questioning glances.

Karlotta has disappeared from the front of the room when he looks back not a few seconds later.

 

“Yo! Iwaizumi!” Kuroo runs up behind him with a wave. Hajime is only capable of giving a half-hearted smile in return. Always the observant mother, his friend is quick to zero in on his mood. Kuroo walks backward beside Hajime, peering annoyingly close into his personal space.

“What’s the matter?” He demands. No chide comment, no insults. Hajime wonders just what exactly his face must look like for Kuroo to not be a complete ass for once.

“Nothing.” He mutters, taking a sharp turn down an adjacent sidewalk. Kuroo hops along beside him with a frown.

“No, not nothing. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. You’re paler than Bokuto’s thighs.” Hajime swallows thickly at the lump in his throat but wrinkles his nose at the latter comment.

“Thanks for that imagery.”

“No problem. Now what’s up?”

Hajime rubs his forehead to work out the growing migraine. His voice is a little more than a gruff whisper when he sighs and admits:

“I probably did see a ghost.”

 

* * *

  _2:56 A.M. – Ibis Marne la Vallée Hotel_

 

Takahiro wakes when a car outside his window blares loudly on its horn. He winces at the piercing screech, feels it echo in his head.

He reaches over to the nightstand, squints at the time on his phone. He lets it fall back to the stand with an equally loud clatter. Groaning into the pillow, Takahiro laments the alarm set to go off by six. He’d been sleeping so well too.

He blearily looks around the room in the half-darkness. Takahiro feels his heart skip a beat when he think he’s sees a human figure standing by the foot of the bed, but breathes a heavy sigh of relief when it’s just the clothes he hung out on the closet door.

Just for extra protection, because he doesn’t feel like having an audience even while sleeping, Takahiro pulls the covers over his head.

Before he falls asleep he thinks he hears an older voice whisper-

“You all are so very lucky. There are four of you, my dear.”

 And then,

"Sweet dreams."

 

 

 


	2. a few curious sensations

* * *

 

 _Rebuilt it with time_  
_But first I'll open up your_  
_Mind_  
_And coalesce with mine_

-[Coalesce](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZlPw5WP94o), Jack Garratt  

 

* * *

 _12:05 P_ _.M. – Meiji University_  

Tooru drags himself from the testing room with all the energy of a sloth. His current mental capacity feels roughly the same as well. When he clears the building he lets out a long-suffering groan, much to the amusement and sympathy of the students milling around him. Tooru scrubs at his eyes against the glare of the sun, pushing his glasses up with his knuckles.

 _Why me,_ he thinks, _why do bad things happen to good people? Why did I ever sign up for this stupid class?_

He’d been studying for a month. Early mornings, late nights, between classes and even through meals as the dreaded exam date loomed closer and closer. It was worth a third of his final grade. A whole 33% that decided if he could pass the class and get his required credits. It was a menace.

He leaves the hall clueless as to how he scored.

It wasn’t his fault for having Satan as a professor. The old woman probably kept harpies as actual pets too. She stood for no shit, doled out grades with an iron fist, could stare down God if she wanted to. Her perpetual beady-eyed glower and decrepit gesticulating hands as she lectures haunts his nightmares. The stress of not automatically having the score to the test that practically ruined his life for the past month almost makes Tooru wish to wrangle Professor Satan’s neck for being such a slow grader.

Feet dragging, Tooru decides now is the perfect time to go back home and sleep. It’s Friday, that had been his only class today, and he’s ready to go and hopefully be considered dead for the next 72 hours until he’s feeling human again. He sighs at the thought… _But then again… At home there’s…_

As an afterthought, he reaches and digs in his messenger bag for his phone, finding it turned off buried beneath the piles of crumpled paper he threw into his bag leaving the library. With a sigh, he turns it on and waits.

 _Ah, shit._ It’s barely a minute with the phone in his hand until it suddenly buzzes to life with incoming texts and missed calls.

 **54 Messages:** Group Chat

 **11 Messages:** Sugawara Koushi

 **2 Messages:** Kawanishi Taichi

**5 Missed Calls**

Tooru winces when everything is received. Yup. Good thing he checked his phone before heading back to the apartment. Sugawara was bound to want to brain him by now for pulling yet another disappearing act.

Scrolling through the overdramatic texts from Suga, mostly ranging from aggravated,  _Are you f**king kidding me?_   to worried,  _Please really just be in the library and not dead in a ditch somewhere_ , Tooru grins when he ignores Suga’s and sees Kawanishi’s messages.

One, right after he left the apartment last night:

_Don’t forget to sleep._

 And right before his exam:

_Good luck, you’ve studied hard for this._

Always the forthright one, Kawanishi. The contrast between his two roommates was amusing to Tooru. Suga was fussy and _cared_. While he was always there for anyone who really needed him, Suga honestly asserted himself into other’s business too often for it to possible be healthy. Kawanishi on the other hand, although on occasion rivaled Suga’s need for irritating meddling, was much more indifferent. He was never inconsiderate however, and that proffered a startling but much needed balance in the three roommate’s relationship. Mainly because Tooru felt himself the complete opposite of Suga- being the selfish and thoughtless one in their well-adjusted triad.

The phone is turned off and pocketed as Tooru stops at a crosswalk.

With a sigh, Tooru feels the weight of exhaustion bear down upon him tenfold as he stands still waiting for the light to change. His head is pounding from stress, his body tired and malnourished. He has to squint to fight off the strong glare from the sun, and every step closer to the apartment is another step closer to Suga waiting to nag him to death.

 _At least he won’t have long to complain_ , Tooru moans bitterly. _I feel like I’m going to keel over any second_.

His head feels like it’s about to explode and he can hardly keep his eyes open as he slogs back to the apartment. It rests just a few blocks from campus in a small brick building with four units total. They got a really good price for it even though it was close to the school, and split three ways makes it even easier.

Except great prices aside, the door has always been shit. He stands before it, his key struggling to fit into the lock. Tooru wrinkles his nose in distaste as he jams a different one, because yeah shit door and wrong key don’t mix, and turns the deadbolt. The door opens not two moments afterward, and he draws forward along with the key still in the lock.

“Tooru!” Suga jumps back as Tooru doesn’t hesitate to slump forward onto his roommate’s shoulder. It’s barely a second before he’s pulled back again. He groans petulantly.

“Tooru, where have you been? Do you even check your phone anymore?” Suga is holding his cheeks so they’re looking at each other, but Tooru closes his eyes- despondent.

“You didn’t come back last night! Did you even make it to your test? How did you do?”

He tries to break past the entryway but Suga is adamant about keeping him dead on his feet. Tooru whines. Just why Suga found it necessary to torture him further with the needless concerned chatter baffles him.

“Please Kou-chan, I am so exhausted. I need sleep.” Tooru leans against the doorframe like a Frenchwoman in distress. The back of his hand shields his eyes from Suga’s frustrated albeit worried glare. Upon closer inspection, Tooru decides the doorframe is a perfectly suitable place to sleep if need be. He slumps against it further.

Thankfully, Suga relents when he sees Tooru is roughly three seconds from passing out.

Tooru collapses onto the couch still wearing his shoes and messenger bag. His head _hurts_. It’s like someone personally took a hammer to his temples. Tooru weakly calls out for Suga to pass him the bottle of pain reliever medication. At the weak plea, Suga is on immediate alert.

“Is it your knee again?” He asks softly, gingerly propping Tooru up so he can swallow the pills. He takes them dry then chugs the water Suga handed him.

“No it’s my head,” Tooru whines as he falls sideways to the cushions again. “I just want to sleep.” He drags out his vowels and squeezes his eyes shut.

Suga straightens and looks at him skeptically. He checks his watch and sighs.

“I’ll ask Taichi to pick up Takeru for you today then and get him home.” Tooru cracks open an eye as Suga brushes the hair back from his forehead. Even the light touch of his fingertips feels like an immense relief on the pressure on the inside of his skull. Sighing into the gesture, Tooru lays his cheek in Suga’s palm. He hears the soft chuckle of his roommate and feels Suga tuck him under the throw blanket that had been on the back of the couch.

Tooru cracks open an eye to see his silver-haired roommate smiling fondly at him. The beauty mark under his left eye is crinkled under the soft gaze before Suga turns away and blithely saunters out of the living room. His voice travels from his bedroom.

“I’ll be late getting back tonight. I have a design meeting with the director and production manager. I won’t be home for dinner.”

Tooru’s mind is floating far away as Suga walks around the apartment gathering his things. He sinks into the ratty woven cushions and fists the blanket underneath his chin. His body feels like mush, a tingling sensation running up and down his legs. Maybe his brain really is made of gelatin, it would probably explain why he did so poorly on his test. There’s a satisfying static to his thoughts as he drifts on the cusp of sleep.

A sudden chill coasts down his spine though, one that raises bumps along his shoulders and down his forearms. He tightens the blankets around him. God, he’d be so screwed if he got sick.

Tooru hears rain pattering down on the sidewalk outside, the thunder grumbling overhead. He can’t remember if it’d been cloudy or not as he was walking home, but rain makes sense because he’s suddenly aware of the dampness of his clothes. Snuggling even deeper into the couch, Tooru curls up to sleep away his life.

Suga has other plans.

“Don’t think we’re not talking about your disappearance when I get back!” The argent-haired man huffs, his bag slung over his shoulder ready to head out.

“I won’t,” Tooru mumbles, “don’t forget your umbrella.”

There’s an odd silence in answer as Suga walks over to the window and peeks out of the drawn curtain.

Tooru yawns and wrestles himself free of his messenger bag that had been tucked beneath the blanket with him. His shoes are quick to follow. After a second Suga is away from the window and smacking his palm roughly against Tooru’s forehead checking for temperature.

“Tooru, there isn’t a cloud in the sky. The forecast says it won’t rain for the next few days.” Suga quips, content that his roommate as of yet didn’t have a fever when he moves away. He also flashes the weather app report on his phone.

“But, I hear it.” Tooru’s brow wrinkles. If it’s not rain- then what is it? They don’t have an A/C unit because they have normal fans. Tooru _swears_ he’s actually hearing rain. Then again, he’s also half asleep. Maybe just the static in his brain?

…Then what shall he also make of the dampness of his clothes? It can’t possibly be sweat. He feels very nearly saturated, like he’d jumped in a pool.

“Okay whatever. Don’t wait up for me tonight.” Suga leans down and pecks Tooru on the cheek. “Be sure not to sleep all day.”

The front door closes too with a violent slam. It startles him enough to where he actually jumps in alarm.

Tooru lays there in a stupor. He pats the warm shirt on his chest- completely dry and comfortable although the skin underneath feels the familiar pattering of rain coursing down his shoulders. He sits up and throws off the blanket, perplexed.

Tooru glares at the drawn curtains, backlit by sunshine. There’s a loud clap of thunder overhead, the white noise of rain pouring heavily onto pavement.

But when he stands unsteadily and crosses the room to pull back the curtains, the noise stops.

The sun is shining without a raincloud in sight.

   

* * *

  _12:36 P.M. – Mishima Island, Southwest hillside_

The walk up the hillside takes far too long for Issei to pretend he’s doing anything but dawdling. Most likely Irihata would wait out the brunt of the storm in town, so there was really no concern of the old man beating him home and then questioning where he had been.

And the answer to that is simple- he’d been to the shrine. It’s a little more than halfway up the hillside, and he has to take a different path to access it that isn’t heavily traveled and therefore overgrown and slick with mud.

When he finally breaks the wooded path, he’s greeted with a near shambolic shrine. This particular one has been abandoned since long before he was born. The stained red of the house now chips away from the warped wood, tree branches littering the deck and breaking through the once carefully-crafted awning. The stairs are partly broken and one of the columns of the arches has fallen aside across the path.

Issei’s soaked to the bone when he steps under what remains of the overhang to escape the rain. The boards creak under his weight, but don’t protest further and snap beneath him.

Kneeling down before the altar, Issei presses his palms together and closes his eyes in prayer. After all these years, it’s impossible to tell who this shrine originally used to honor, but since a few years ago, Issei always hoped it was to some god of healing or longevity. He prays as often as he can, usually coming to the shrine at least a few times a week. This building has housed his worries and fears and hopes for as long as he can remember.

So now he breathes and prays to whatever god will listen, hoping for them to answer.

 _Although lots of good prayer does when we don’t acknowledge the responses._ Issei’s mouth twitches into a pained grimace and he has to take a steadying sigh.

His entire life, he’s grown up on this godforsaken island. His entire life, either here or out on sea, never once having been to the mainland for lack of money and never once having thought of running away for obligation to his family. His entire life praying at this shrine and believing in the gods and ignoring the rainstorms as they rumble overhead.

Religion wasn’t something he took lightly anymore. Maybe when he was younger, he skeptically followed along the proceedings of tradition, watched some townspeople with thinly veiled confusion and arrogance. Maybe it was desperation or convenience back then that drove him to believe, maybe it was something even more self-serving and shameful. But if the Gods wouldn’t help him, his mother, his family, then who would?

Issei finishes his prayer quickly, reminding himself that a prayer made while bitter wouldn’t be a very heartfelt prayer at all. He hoped the shrine god would forgive him for his sour mood. Perhaps it was the rain. 

He tidies up a few straw branches from the deck as he descends the stairs back into the harsh downpour. The rain feels just as relentless as it did ten minutes ago. His shirt is sticking uncomfortably to him, his pants legs sodden and glued to his calves.

It’s another fifteen minute trudge uphill until Irihata’s house appears along the side of the road. He walks past the battered wooden fence and through the overgrown yard. Fortunately, the door’s unlocked and he finally escapes the downpour.

Issei looks out the front window as he peels off his dripping shirt. Hisako comes to greet him when she hears him enter, but screams when she sees him stripping in the entryway, blush coasting quickly up her ears.

“M-Matsukawa Issei you are a grown man! Put on some clothes! Have some class-” He chuckles as she furiously covers her eyes. She hurries back into the living area, pointedly averting her gaze from her half-naked little brother. Oh well. It’s not like he cares. Peeling off his wet trousers he calls out after her—

“And you’re a grown woman! Be more mature!” For decency reasons, Issei keeps his boxers on, and goes to wring out his clothes in the shower. They don’t have a dryer here, and there’s basically a typhoon outside so hanging his clothes out to dry would be pointless. So, when they’re finally less saturated he strategically lays them around the bathroom to dry out.

Issei grabs a towel and scrubs furiously at his hair. Looking in the small bathroom mirror, he takes a few indulgent moments to shape his curly hair into odd styles. A Mohawk, a comb over, as far down his forehead as the short curly strands can reach. Parting it on one side, then the other. He snorts when he parts it down the middle. Rubbing the towel over his hair again, he leaves it be in his natural disheveled state.

He really should’ve grabbed an umbrella this morning after hearing the weather report on the radio. The thunder roars loudly overhead. The wind sends the rain catapulting into the windowpanes and whistling through the shingles atop the house. Issei’s thankful they docked early. Being out on the water in a storm like this would’ve been a real pain.

He fishes for clothes in the small wardrobe in the guest room, having to push aside some of Hisako’s skirts she inevitably shoves in every drawer. He dresses in a pair of cotton sweats and a long-sleeved green shirt before heading back to the living area.

His elder sister is curled up on the couch, a cup of tea in hand. Her dark hair is pulled up in a loose bun, delinquent curls springing free from their confines. Hisako is watching the rain pour over the back awning. A relatively cathartic pastime considering they don’t have television and the radio signal has probably been lost in the storm.

Hisako sighs in mock relief when she sees him clothed. Issei quirks a brow and jumps roughly onto the other end of the couch so he can plant his feet in her lap as retribution. She raises her cup to keep it from spilling.

“Watch it, or I’ll dump hot tea all over you.” She warns, blowing gently into her cup.

Issei snorts and ignores the empty threat, his sister couldn’t hurt a fly even if she wanted to. He opts to gaze outside at the torrent.

Man, Irihata is going to be so pissed when he finally gets home out of this rain. Issei should probably set out towels, shouldn’t he? That’s what a nice pair of freeloaders would do. It’s been two months, they really need to be as gracious as possible even though the old man treats them like they were his own children.

Reluctantly, Issei rolls off the couch and onto the floor. He’d just gotten comfortable too.

“Leaving me already?” His sister teases.

“Towels for Irihata-san,” He justifies himself, “Do you need anything while I’m up?” He asks as he plods out of the room.

Hisako fixes him with a pointed stare and Issei throws his hands up in resignation. That is what he gets for trying to be polite.

As he places the towels by the door, his sister calls out that she has lunch ready in the kitchen.

“I knew you two would come home early because of the storm! So I made some of Irihata-san’s favorites!”

_Oh no._

So naturally, he finds himself in the kitchen staring down skeptically at the sandwiches sitting on the counter. They’re cut in triangles- that’s a good sign. Right? But what’s _inside_ them? Issei picks one up and eyes it like a detective with a magnifying glass. He spies tomato, cheese, ham… he sniffs it and recoils. Upon lifting up the bun he finds the anchovies and wasabi.

Leave it to Hisako to make abominable sandwiches. And leave it to old man Irihata to have the weirdest taste buds in existence. With a sigh, Issei gingerly sets the concoction down and settles on picking an apple from the hanging fruit basket.

When he returns to the living room, Hisako obviously pouts at his choice of snack.

“You know, Irihata-san really likes my sandwiches. Did you at least try it?”

Issei pops the ‘p’ when he shakes his head, “Nope.” He does not have a stomach forged from iron much less bowels made from steel.

When he says this to Hisako she scowls and smacks him on the arm.

He reclines back against the couch again, smiling to himself as she mindlessly chatters about how a beggars can’t be choosers and that his picky eating is going to be the end of her. After a while her tittering tapers off and they relax into a comfortable silence.

The rain is soothing and the thunder rolls above them. Issei’s eyes are drawn to his sister’s profile. She looks tranquil, contented even. But Hisako hasn’t been leaving the house as often as she used to. There are dark circles beneath her eyes and her sun-kissed skin has far more pallor to it than usual. Her shoulders are curled in protectively, and Issei’s brow furrows at the word _resigned_ when it pops in his head.

He watches the way she draws her tea to her lips, sees her still doubtfully blow on it even though its long been cooled. The habit they both picked up from their mother.

The bitterness doesn’t have time to settle. His attention is drawn back to outside with the next clap of thunder. He lets it envelop him, the sound lull him away from his intrusive thoughts. The angry thoughts. The thoughts that he’d much rather never acknowledge and pretend everything is fine in the meantime. The thoughts that don’t help his pounding headache.

Issei goes to take a bite of his apple again.

Except when he looks down to the fruit in his hand, he’s puzzled as to why it’s a pear.

 

* * *

  _2:50 P.M. – Kitasato University_

Hajime sharply recoils from the fruit in his hand. Kuroo’s looking at him like he’s an absolute lunatic, but Hajime swears that he just bit into an apple.

“You okay there, buddy?” Kuroo prompts, eyebrows raised in concern.

They’re sitting in the campus café, and Hajime has the sinking feeling that he really shouldn’t be out in public right now. He’s having a weird fucking day. First the crazy old lady vision, and now he’s tasting apples when he eats pears. Hajime places the fruit on the table, affronted.

“I think I may just need to go lie down for the next few centuries.” He mutters, scrutinizing the pear.

Kuroo chuckles and picks the fruit up, happily eating it for him.

“Well if you ask me,” _Which he didn’t,_ “I think you’re letting the whole ‘Yuuna is developing a tumor’ really fuck you up man.”

Hajime clicks his tongue and faces the window.

“No seriously,” Kuroo munches on the pear, “You were a total wreck last night. You’re probably just stressed and it’s manifesting in weird ways.”

Maybe it is just the stress? He found the tumor under Yuuna’s leg just yesterday so maybe he isn’t handling it as well as he thought he was? He’s had the sweet little critter for two years with Mao and Miyu.

He’s grown attached.

He doesn’t want her to be debilitated by tumors for the rest of her short life.

“You could be right…” He mutters, folding his hands in his lap.

“Damn straight.” Kuroo boasts, pulling out his phone and typing something in the ensuing lull in conversation.

Hajime’s frown lightens when he sees a familiar head of grey bounding down the sidewalk.

The front door chimes merrily as Bokuto enters the café.

Not one second after seeing them is Bokuto blurting out a triumphant “Aha!” and thundering over to them, textbook clutched excitedly between his hands.

The thing about his roommate and friend; is that he doesn’t know how to operate quietly. While Hajime can liken Kuroo to a cat _(shifty, cunning, and obnoxious on occasion)_ , for Bokuto he’s much more like a howler monkey or a parrot _(never shuts up, excitable, cute but can also be intimidating)_. So as much as Hajime’s brain is pounding right now, he doesn’t have the heart to shush his friend who waves enthusiastically and booms his greetings as he approaches.

The noise draws more than just a few offended stares their way.

“Hey you two,” Bokuto unceremoniously drops a textbook between them. Iwaizumi jumps at the sound. “Did you guys know that vultures have stomach acid so powerful they can ingest anthrax and not die?”

Kuroo’s concerned lilt to his mouth evolves into his trademark grin at Hajime’s long-suffering sigh. Bokuto leans on his forearms to stare at them both, genuinely excited about the factoid. His brown eyes are as wide as plates and he’s bouncing on the tips of his toes as he leans against the table.

“Dude,” Kuroo continues eating Hajime’s pear, “vultures are so badass. But also kind of creepy.”

“They’re only creepy because they eat dead things.”

Kuroo gestures wildly with one hand. “And have those weird worm necks.”

“But the babies can be cute sometimes.” Bokuto pulls out his phone to look up pictures.

“Chicks, you mean.” Hajime mutters, half-heartedly flipping through Bokuto’s biology textbook. His cheek rests in his palm as he flips through the pages. He isn’t really interested in vulture talk right now. Or dead things. Especially dead things, thinking about Yuuna and her condition. His friend levels him a look.

“Chicks are still babies.” Bokuto finishes typing on his phone and proudly displays the fuzzy white vulture chicks. Kuroo’s eyes grow wide and he coos. Hajime looks briefly at the picture and instantly decides that if a baby vulture ever needs a home, he’d gladly raise it.

Kuroo catches the warm glint in his eye, “No Iwaizumi, you two have enough creatures in the apartment already. It’s like a fucking zoo in there.”

Five goldfish, four garden snails, three fancy rats, two lovebirds, a cat, and an ant farm, to be exact.

 _Soon to be one less without Yuuna._ Hajime frowns and straightens his shoulders. Man, he really needs to go lie down. He’s just going through a rut. Maybe going home to sleep really is the best course of action. He can skip his afternoon lecture just this once. He picks up his things and stands.

“I’m going to go,” He pushes in his chair, “I need to check on Yuuna then get some sleep.”

Bokuto sends him a quizzical glance and Kuroo openly pouts at his departure, but Hajime is tired and hurting. The headache isn’t lessening up.

“I still have a couple more classes.” Bokuto mopes, taking the pear from Kuroo and biting into it. Faintly, Hajime wishes his roommate would give any indication it tastes like an apple, but the hope is squashed as Bokuto basically inhales the rest of the poor fruit without so much as blinking.

“You have one more class too.” Kuroo reminds Hajime, brushing a hand through his uncontrollable bedhead. He fixes Hajime with a flat look.

“I’ll see you two later.” He ignores the look. Hajime slings his bag over his shoulder and trudges out of the café- his friends’ protests left behind him. The early autumn air is warm and alleviates the slight chill he’d had inside. It’s a ten minutes bus ride to the apartment.

When he unlocks the front door, Porco is laying on the back of the couch staring at him. The giant poufy cat watches as Hajime toes off his shoes and walk in, mewling for pets when he trots by. Hajime indulges the cat even further and picks him up like an infant, swinging Porco gently in his arms as he heads into his bedroom. The fat fluff ball purrs contentedly.

He opens his bedroom door and smiles at the small space, warmed and homey with the animal cages and tanks, the succulents he has in the windowsill and the quilts he has thrown over his bed.

The rats perk up when he enters, and titter around in their cage excitedly. Hajime lets Porco fall to his bed along with his backpack in favor of checking on his other animals.

He peers into the large fish tank and smiles when he counts all five goldfish happily swimming in circles. He makes sure their filter is functioning properly, checks the temperature of the water and takes a moment just to admire the bubbles from the tiny volcano he placed in the corner.

Next are the snails, who are still looking as healthy and fine as ever considering he’d cleaned their aquarium just yesterday. His ant farm is happily bustling about too next to the snails in his windowsill.

Hajime then goes to the rats on the other side of his bed and opens the cage. First, he picks up the excitable Mao and places her in the plastic travel ball so she can roll around. Doing the same for the lovely Miyu, Hajime gently places both of his girls on the ground so they can explore around his room. Lastly, Hajime picks up Yuuna and strokes gently along her white fur, careful to avoid touching the small forming tumor under her front left leg.

The little rat sniffs at him curiously, licking at his thumb when she smells what he’d eaten for lunch. Hajime smiles sadly at her, cooing soft words, feeling the familiar hole in his heart open up yet again at the thought of losing one of his precious animals.

He goes to fall back onto his bed to rest, holding her comfortingly in his arms.

Except as he goes to lay back he keeps falling.

And falling.

And falling…   

* * *

_7: 41 A.M. – Meaux, Cirque du Lune Rehearsal Studio_

Takahiro lands on the foam pad with an _oomph._

Kiyoko descends and stands over him, head tilted to peer at him better from upside down. Takahiro groans. A part of him wishes the mat wasn’t beneath him so this would all just be over. He’d be dead and wouldn’t have to live through this terrible morning anymore. The music blaring from the studio speakers are really making his head pound unbearably.

“Are you okay?” His partner asks quietly, voice unconcerned. It was obvious he was. Merely asking was just a kind formality to spare him some face. Kiyoko was gracious like that, even though they’ve known each other for years now and asking such things was redundant.

She probably even knew that he wasn’t even trying to complete that maneuver. Takahiro’s grin wobbles as he stands, bum a little sore but was easy enough to disregard if he just kept moving.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Can we run through the middle again?” Kiyoko nods with a rueful twitch to her lip and goes to rewind the soundtrack.

Takahiro stretches out his arms again, rolling his shoulder back a few times with some satisfying pops. To be honest, he’d been lazy with that last trick. He knew he should’ve been aiming for Kiyoko’s hands, but hell, Takahiro just straight up decided to fall because he was tired. Nothing new on his end. He needed to wake up somehow.

He gathers the open silk hanging from the swivel and loops it around his arm once before climbing up again. Halfway up, he loops the fabric again around his foot, supporting his weight by standing rather than hanging as he waits for Kiyoko.

She follows not long after, the music steadily increasing towards the crescendo where Takahiro reaches from his silk to hers. Its choreography where they hold one another by their wrists and Takahiro is slowly lowered to the ground. Their roles as butterflies in conjunction with the maneuver however confuses him. _If it looks pretty then, by all means let’s do it- butterflies be damned._

They’d probably be better casted as silk worms.

They finish the routine without a hitch and are taking a water break when the director comes into talk with them. On her heels is a slew of other technical team members who ask the usual questions about their welfare. It’s a little dizzying trying to sort through it all.

“Comment allez-vous? Puis-je regarder la performance à nouveau?” The director asks, more a demand than an actual question.

“Oui, bien sûr que vous pouvez.” Takahiro graciously bows. Beside him, Kiyoko is tight-lipped and nods.

The Cirque has always been a melting pot of talent. Just in their company alone, over twenty different countries are represented. Which meant a hellacious amount of language barriers. Takahiro and Kiyoko were the only Japanese people in the entire troupe- it was lonely and fun all the same. Lonely, because Takahiro missed speaking in his native language to other people. Fun, because he was able to practice other languages he wouldn’t have had an opportunity to otherwise.

So far, he knew French and a little bit of English. There was some conversational Russian for the tightrope walkers, lots of curse words in German he’d picked up from floor acrobats. He could sneeze in Spanish and hiccup in Chinese. All in all, sometimes he didn’t even know if he was speaking actual words with meaning. At least he had a firm hold of French though, seeing as this particular show had been preparing to debut in France for the past four months.

Takahiro’s heart gives a little squeeze. _Opening night is in three weeks._

Kiyoko gives a tiny sigh of relief as they turn back to their silks.

“You would think you’d pick up French by now.” Takahiro teases as they walk to the platform set up about five meters from where the silks are anchored in the center of the room. Granted, he’s actually known French since infancy; his father hailed from Rennes. They climb the platform and snuggle together as they wait for the music to start.

“I can still kick your ass in Chinese, don’t test me.” Kiyoko mutters, glaring at him nearly cross-eyed because their noses are almost touching and she doesn’t have her glasses on. Takahiro snickers at her just as the music begins.

They run through the ten minute routine without any imperfections. Yet, the director still complains about the platform height, the width of the silks, and Takahiro’s piercings.

 _Yes,_ he assures her yet again, _they will be out during the performance._ He can’t help but think how fucking metal of a butterfly he would be if he kept his septum piercing in though. Maybe he could sneak in some bright, glittery earrings while he’s at it. Ones that are shaped like skulls. Why not wear a studded collar as well?

…On second hand, that might be too much. Takahiro shakes his head.

It is a long morning of the normal work, _practice namely_ , and he’s more tired than usual by the time lunch rolls around. Kiyoko repeatedly has to prod him to keep him from nodding off.

“Takahiro, do you need to go take a nap?” Kiyoko’s brow is furrowed as he rests his head on her shoulder, sandwich forgotten in his lap. Takahiro is just so tired, it feels like too much effort to even blink. He’d even gotten sleep last night, on his regular schedule. Why is he so exhausted?

He’s staring off into nothing. There’s not much to see except the same old street where they sit on one of the wrought iron benches outside the hotel. The air is tepid, a cool breeze stirring the dust and leaves on the road.

He hears Kiyoko faintly, knows that she’s talking again, but his attention is mostly focused on something else. Someone’s knocking on something. There’s a short interval between each set of rapid thumps where he thinks he can hear a voice, but it’s distorted. The knock happens again, and for some reason the sound feels more like a memory rather than actually happening. Like someone’s knocking on the opposite side of his bedroom door…

Kiyoko snaps in front of his face and he jolts back to reality, sitting up and affirming “Yeah, yeah, sure lets go do that.”

She quirks her brow in amusement.

“You actually want to go straight to the makeup artist and not the bakery?”

 _Hell-to-the-no._ Takahiro is on his feet and grabs Kiyoko’s hand with a grin.

“Whoever said that, my dear butterfly?” He pulls her up and she rolls her eyes as he twirls her. “We shall dance the whole way to the bakery and there make love to the smell of cinnamon and sugar.” He bows exaggeratedly, still holding Kiyoko’s hand as if she was a princess.

She swipes it away with a flat look.

Takahiro deflates but he knows his partner is only concerned for him. It was going to be a long day and if he was already running low on steam he’d be positively dead by tonight. It wasn’t as if his muscles weren’t already screaming at him from morning practice.

Kiyoko gathers the trash from their lunches and deposits it in the bin by the streetlight.

“Let’s go get you some sugar then so you don’t fall asleep in the chair.”

Takahiro perks up and offers his arm.

Kiyoko takes it with a gentle smile, brushing her black hair over her shoulder.

In the back of his mind, Takahiro still thinks he hears a faint knocking.

 

* * *

  _9:15 P.M. – Meiji University, Student Apartments_

He wakes to Suga knocking relentlessly on his bedroom door. "I _told_ you not to sleep all day!"

Tooru is breathless for a moment staring up at his ceiling.

Into the darkness he whispers, “What in the world was that?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All kudos/comments/bookmarks are greatly appreciated! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧  
> questions? come poke at me on [tumblr](https://asteriskscepter.tumblr.com/)!


	3. let's be anyone but you and me

* * *

_Close your eyes_  
_Swallow the sun_  
_You have only just begun_

 _Breathe in, breathe out_  
_Take the light, shadows here_  
_From this room_

-[Breathe in](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMmVYRxGc-Y), [Breathe Out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mkUkFOGKwFw), Son Lux

 

* * *

  _6:05 A.M. – Meiji University_

Tooru knows something is completely and totally wrong when he wakes up on a boat.

A boat.

For the love of all that is holy it is a Sunday, he should still be nestled and warm in his bed. He should be curled beneath the blankets, comfortable and lax with sleep. The curtains in his room _should be_ closed and his room suitably dark until his body decides to wake on its own.

 _Should be_ , being the operative phrase here.

And to an extent, Tooru thinks this is still happening. Somehow he really is back in his room, safe and asleep. However, that’s in some other reality or existence separate from this current one. It’s far away in another state of consciousness, and he doesn’t know how he knows this. He just does, and it’s probably the least concerning thing right this very moment.

He’s sitting on the white boat deck slick with sea spray, still in his pajamas. It’s still mostly dark out, but twilight dances atop the horizon, stars receding like they are being blown away by the wind. And there are _so many_ stars. Tooru grabs onto his toes absently, rocking forward just to be even a smidge closer to the sky. He’d never seen it like this before. The night sky so wonderfully beautiful and full, even if it’s fading away as quickly as he can soak it all in.

Against the dawn above him are two great pillars that look as though they fan out from the center of the deck, like giant wings with the plumage of nets yet to be moored laying limp at the base. He wonders if in some alternate reality that's what this boat was made for. To sail out to sea only to take flight on the horizon, swimming into the pre-dawn sky. 

Tooru breathes and he can taste the salt, the prickle of small droplets of water hitting his skin, the burning in his nose of breathing in too cold air. His eyes sting against the struggle of holding them open against the wind. So he turns his face away, and finds that someone is sitting next to him.

With a sharp intake of breath, Tooru freezes and stares. The man next to him has his head tilted back against the side of the boat, eyes closed. His heavy brows are relaxed and his squared jaw is loosened, open just the slightest so the sea spray brushes his chapped lips. His dark-tanned skin has water pearled onto it, sparkling like glitter in the rising light of the dawn. The black, curled hair is already beginning to stick down onto his forehead. In his hands is clutched a worn and ratty baseball cap.

Staring at him is like seeing a photo of an old friend. One that you knew only in childhood, with rounded cheeks and baby fat that you tried connecting with the very same friend you met again by chance years later into adulthood.

Except that would only make sense if this man wasn’t a complete stranger.

But Tooru _knows_ this man. Even though he's positive he’s absolutely never seen him before.

Something plucks against the forefront of his mind, like a harp string that slowly grows still as the note fades into nothingness. A word on the tip of his tongue. A name. He _knows_ this man’s name. He reaches out, tries to get closer.

“Matsu—”

The man cracks open an eye and Tooru startles, pulling his hand away in shock. His heartbeat speeds up and Tooru swallows it, confused but bewildered.

Back home, he stirs in his bed.

“Mattsun!” He babbles, decidedly losing the harp note and filling in the blanks. The flightiness in his chest doesn’t lighten and he can already feel his grasp on this, whatever this is, dream or reality slipping.

The man tilts his head and raises a brow. He smiles and it’s bemused. Tooru’s pulse flutters again at the look, and upon exhaling he smiles back himself with intrigue and exhilaration.

But he feels the sheets shifting around his legs.

“Mattsun?” The man questions, the vibrato of his sleep-riddled voice being the last sensation Tooru experiences before his consciousness tumbles back into his own body.

 

“Again!” Tooru leaps from his bed, no traces of sleep clinging to him.

He knew he hadn’t been wrong about his dreams these past few nights.

First it was the avenue bench on a warm afternoon. He’d stood aside and looked about in wonder at the foreign architecture, marveling at the humidity and the aromas. It was then he noticed the man and woman on the bench. And immediately he was drawn to the man. Once again he reached for a name, a memory, something, and anything that could tell Tooru where he knew him from. But it all ended so quickly, and he woke before he could remember.

Then it happened a second time Saturday night. He was kneeling on the ground this time, peering into a beautiful and large fish tank that was backlit with changing colors. In the tank happily swam five goldfish and _of course_ Tooru could name _them_. Porco, Kiyoko, Yunna, Tofu and Issei. He couldn’t remember the names of the men he saw _nooooo_. But he could recall names of freaking goldfish.

And now this! This strange phenomenon happened again! A third time! Which meant it was finally established as a pattern. A reoccurring sequence that would undoubtedly continue.

And Tooru has absolutely no freaking clue as to why it’s all happening.

He gathers the sheets up in his arms that had been kicked to the floor, pulling at his bottom lip with his teeth. What does he do now?

His nephew Takeru needs to be picked up from volleyball practice at ten, and he probably should go grocery shopping for dinner tonight. Homework was finished yesterday, and Tooru isn’t too keen on drowning himself in studying again now that midterms are finished. The bed looks comfortable and inviting, but unsurprisingly after the whole boat ordeal, Tooru isn’t tired anymore.

Slipping out of his bedroom he pads into the kitchen. After filling a glass with water and downing it, Tooru leans back against the counter.

 _Mattsun_ … Just who was he? Why was he important? Tooru places the empty glass in the sink and stares around the half-dark apartment.

Why was he seeing these things? Who were these people? How was all of this happening?

He pulls back the curtains in the living room and opens the blinds. The sky is no longer dark with night. It’s hued the timid blue of dawn, outlining the gray buildings that break up the horizon.

Tooru wishes he were still on that boat. Still seeing the undisturbed dawn overtake the sky above the ocean. Still sitting next to Mattsun and feeling his heart beat out of chest for no other reason than that it could. He wishes he knew how to do it all again.

Sleep is obviously the answer to that. So far, he’s found himself transported to all these other places only when he’s slept. Tooru snorts quietly to himself.

Maybe it’s just his body rewarding him for finally sleeping. Dreaming up these fantastically real images to entice him to not exhaust himself any more. Maybe it’s a sign saying not to kill himself with fatigue and maybe he’ll get to really experience these wonderful things.

But he knows this isn’t true. Tooru knows that this isn’t karma or some higher power. What has been happening is real, and not the consequence of some odd divine intervention.

Tooru is sure of that.

So when he’s out of the apartment fifteen minutes later on his way to the library, Tooru’s certain he is going to find the answer to his questions.

He’s going to figure out what is happening.

 

That being said, he obviously finds nothing of substance in the library by the time he needs to pick up Takeru from his junior volleyball practice. Even after they return back to the apartment, Tooru surfing the web and Takeru playing Kawanishi’s video games, he finds nothing. Even after Takeru complains that he’s hungry for lunch and Tooru goes on an enraged manhunt- he’s yet to find anything useful.

And now his blue blazer was missing and he’s out for _blood_.

 

He’s standing outside Suga’s bedroom door, Takeru on his right. Kawanishi is poking his head into the hallway from where he’s been making something in the kitchen.

“Kou-chan! Did you take my blue blazer again?” Tooru bangs his fist harshly against the locked door, attempting to cause even more of a ruckus than the music seeping through the walls of Suga’s bedroom.

Takeru looks at Kawanishi down the hall and furrows his brow.

“Tooru-ojisan, is tha—”

Tooru shushes the boy and pounds ferociously on the door again.

“Kou-chan I swear to god if I find that blazer bedazzled in any way, I’m going to skin you alive!”

Kawanishi snickers and retreats back into the kitchen. Takeru points down the hall and tugs on his uncle’s shirt impatiently.

“Ojisan, I think—”

“Now hush, Takeru. Kou-chan is busy.” Tooru uses both of his fists now and bangs harshly against the door. He squeezes his eyes shut and screeches, “KOUSHI GIVE ME MY BLAZER BA—”

“FUCKING WHAT, OIKAWA?” The door flies open and Suga narrowly avoids getting punched in the face by a stray fist.

Tooru juts out his chin and huffs, hands on his hips. Completely unapologetic.

“I would like my blue blazer back now please.” He holds out an open palm. His silver-haired roommate gawks at him, incredulous and offended. Takeru stares back and forth between the two, cheeks puffed out petulantly at being ignored.

It’s about three seconds into the tense silence when Kawanishi begins his slow slinking down the hall, a cup of instant ramen in his hands.

Tooru’s still dead set on glaring down at Suga. His roommate however doesn’t have long to be offended when, just as he passes behind Tooru, Suga does a double-take at Kawanishi.

“Y-Y-You’re kidding me. Right?” Suga sputters when Takeru’s raspberry and subsequent giggles jolt him back to reality.

“Don’t lie to me Kou-chan! I put it on the back of the couch yesterday!”

_“Taichi’s wearing it, you dipshit.”_

Tooru’s eyes widen as he whirls around only to see Kawanishi now poking his head out of his bedroom, slurping cup noodles and unmistakably wearing his blue blazer. He gasps and that’s all the warning Kawanishi needs before he retreats into his bedroom and locks his own door.

“YOU’RE GONNA STRETCH IT OUT TAICHI!” Tooru rushes to the door and pulls fussily on the handle, bracing his foot against the doorjamb.

“It’s a little snug, but I think it suits me.” Kawanishi’s voice sounds from the other side, bored and unrepentant. _A little_ _snug? A LITTLE?!_ Kawanishi’s shoulder width was _three whole centimeters_ wider than his own. Tooru knows because Suga’s measured them before. There was no way in hell that it wasn’t going to stretch.

“But I wanted to wear it to go get lunch with Takeru.” Is the answering whine as Tooru presses his forehead up against the wood. His nephew is still up the hall, peeking into Suga’s room and ignoring his uncle completely. Won’t even help his poor uncle look fashionable. _How cruel._

Tooru straightens and huffs. Well, he’ll just have to go naked then, won’t he? No way will his outfit look even remotely complete without the blazer.

It’s not like any amount of canoodling will get it back from Kawanishi either. The kleptomaniac. At least it wasn’t his shampoo bottles, or all the glasses from the kitchen, or the left couch cushion… Oh wait, that was only _last_ week. And only the things he _knew_ about.

“Tooru,” Takeru points into Suga’s room where the man has disappeared into again, “can we just order something? I want to help Suga-san.”

“Moral support so I don’t jam these pins into my eyes,” Suga huffs from inside his room. Tooru winces at the image and creeps up to the doorway, watching how Takeru carefully picks his way across the fabric-strewn floor to have a safe perch on the bed.

Messy would be the understatement of the century if one were describing a Sugawara Koushi’s living arrangements. While Tooru may be the food-wrappers and crumpled paper kind of messy, Suga is the hoarder stuff-of-nightmares messy.

Among the various decorations hanging from the ceiling, Tooru spots even more on the walls. Pinned among Vogue posters and fashion magazine pages, the occasional original sketch is taped beneath whatever newfound designer Suga’s got his eye on. There’s a small row of fake potted plants and garland left up from last-year’s Christmas still cheerily hanging around his open closet door that looks like it’s been sick with fabric remnants. Stray yards of unfinished projects and future endeavors spill from an open bucket and all across the floor.

The hardly visible floor. In the middle of the -albeit tiny- room, Suga has his sewing table out and pushed it against his bed he’s using as a chair. Two of three of his mannequins borrowed from school are dressed in some Victorian-era clothing that’s half-finished and inside out.

Needless to say, Tooru’s uncertain as to allow his nephew to disrupt the absolute lunacy Sugawara’s currently under the influence of.

“Kou-chan,” He warbles hesitantly, standing just inside the doorway and toeing at a pile of purple fur laid out before him. “What seems to be the matter?”

Because obviously this was a situationTM and needed to be handled as soon as possible otherwise Suga was bound to start some satanic ritual to the fashion gods in order to get these garments finished. And Tooru didn’t really feel like waking up in the middle of the night again to the smell of smoke and a drunk off his ass Sugawara in the kitchen with a pentagram of table salt and crushed beer cans.

“The costume department decided they wanted a whole new ensemble for the lead woman since apparently the borrowed costumes from the Tokyo Metropolitan Theatre weren’t _good enough_.” Suga scoffs and blows a stray lock of hair from his face. He’s hunched over his machine, sewing the hem of a ridiculously long garment at a speed that would most definitely be terrifying to anyone other than him.

“So now I’m stuck creating four new costumes, some more ornate than your grandmother’s jewelry, and they need them all finished by Thursday’s dress rehearsals.”

“Sounds stressful.” Takeru points out unhelpfully.

Tooru nods in agreement. “What can I do to help?”

Suga stops his furious sewing and sighs, knocking his forehead lightly against his machine.

“Help me clean up a bit? I can’t find anything in the mess I’ve made.”

Tooru and Takeru simultaneously salute and grin.

“Ossu!” They exclaim, and Tooru immediately dives for the pile of tulle in the corner of the room with a mischievous glint in his eye.

 

Hours later finds the three of them giggling like maniacs and all clad in some outrageous fashion.

Takeru’s wearing an old tulle skirt Suga made on one of his pride kicks. He’s also wrapped in a spare yard of silvery velvet, and he flicks it over his shoulder as he jumps back atop the bed singing some pop song Tooru’s never heard before. Suga’s donned himself a pair of cotton bloomers and the waistcoat he’d sewn new buttons onto, and he’s laughing whilst trying to keep Tooru still as he pins the hem of one of the half-finished ball gowns Tooru keeps on trying to dance in.

The beat really is catchy.

Who can blame him?

As Suga turns his back to fetch more pins, Tooru hoists up one of the hoops on the skirt and twirls, pointing finger guns to Takeru who is singing and bouncing like he just can’t help it. Suga shouts in protest over the music for Tooru to stand still, and faintly the sound of someone knocking on the front door reaches the brunet’s ears.

“I’ll get it!” Tooru laughs, whisking himself breathlessly out of the bedroom and straightening the collar on his pink satin gown. He moves to open the door. Man, is the pizza delivery person going to get a kick out of this—

It’s his sister.

Tooru feels his heart drop into his stomach and the blood run from his face.

He whips his head around to stare at the wall clock. It’s only 6:15, he still had nearly two hours until he needed to drop Takeru off. _What the hell?_

Oikawa Aiko takes one long look at her brother and grimaces in confusion.

“Tooru, what are you wearing?” Her voice is cold and measured, much like her typical brusque greetings, except with a foreboding undertone that makes Tooru shudder. It’s a split second hesitation, more like his coming to terms with her imminent anger that causes Tooru’s latent reply. She flicks her long auburn hair from her shoulder and crosses her arms, perfectly manicured nails tapping impatiently.

So naturally upon feeling threatened, Tooru acted tougher than he felt. Mimicking Aiko’s pose, he juts his chin out proudly and purses his lips.

“We are helping Suga-chan with his alterations, Nee-chan. Why are you here?”

Aiko narrows her eyes and looks over his shoulder into the apartment. “I got off work early, I tried calling you to see if you’d drop Takeru off earlier today but,” Her eyes find his again, “You weren’t answering so I came here.”

“And look what I find.” She hisses, tugging on the half-sewn edge of the hanging sleeve. Tooru rips his arm away from her with a petulant glower.

“I thought you were over this, Tooru. We talked about this.” Aiko positions her hands on her hips, voice rising to something a little less than a shout.

Tooru grimaces, wrangling in the fluttering of panic in his gut. His family has always been like this, always demeaning and vicious.

He knows this is going to get ugly, but he doesn’t know what he can do to stop it.

 

 

* * *

  _10: 16 A.M. – Cirque du Lune Rehearsal Studio_

 

Takahiro swings idly in the silk hammock he’d knotted suspended high in the rafters. Below him, the shouts of acrobats warming up with a game of futbol echoes about the room, intermingling with the giggles of chittering cast members. Near the mats, the contortionist pair stretches together, murmuring out their counts. In the right-hand corner of the room, the floor danseurs chat idly and hang off the vault bars.

Takahiro just swings however, a leg hanging out of the silk as he stares blankly down into the room, waving in response when someone enters and shouts out their greetings in whatever language. He doesn’t have to warm up until near the end of the first act anyway, and rehearsals haven’t even started yet. He’d arrived early out of the goodness of his own heart too. So it’s not like a few minutes of mindless swinging would hurt, and it especially wouldn’t hurt since he was hearing the whispers again.

This time, they were angry.

_“You think this is fucking okay,” A voice hissed, “Dressing in drag around my son?”_

_“Nee-san, it’s not like that—”_

_“I thought you were done with all this gay shit, Tooru! You can’t just do this behind my back!”_

_“I haven’t—”_

_“No, screw that. I can’t believe you’d subject my child to this. Takeru, go get your things.”_

_“Wait, you don’t understand—”_

_“Don’t you dare touch me!”_

_The sound of a hand connecting to skin. A slap._

 

Takahiro jolts up in the hammock, balanced but rocking. His foot is still entwined with the silk either way, but the split second terror of possibly falling twenty feet straight down jolts through him still.

He _felt_ that. He brings a hand to his cheek, rubbing away the violent sting. _What the fuck?_

With a sigh, Takahiro descends and plants his feet firmly onto the mats. He shakes out his limbs, rubs absently at his cheek. One of the acrobats stops with the ball in his hands and offers a game, but Takahiro smiles and waves off to one of the clear spaces in the corner. He’s just going to sit down for a few minutes-

“Le premier acte commence en cinq minutes!” Takahiro whirls around and rolls his eyes. The stage director disappears from the doorway with a scowl, probably to go yell at some poor techie. The acrobats soon file out who are on for Act One, which practically leaves the training room empty, bar the specialized talents. He stands in place, bounces on the balls of his feet and huffs. Now he was really left alone to the whispers.

_“…change is $5.13. Your order will be ready soon.”_

_“Thank you.”_

_The soft lull of jazz music, murmured voices in the background._

_Coffee orders being called out_.

 

Takahiro blinks roughly a few times, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he tries to shake the foreign sounds from his brain. Nope, he needed to focus today. Not to get curious about some odd whispers that have been plaguing him since the weekend. He takes a deep breath and sidles up again beneath the silks.

Act One was timed to last 48 minutes, which meant he had enough time to warm up and even dick around if he wanted to. Maybe go chat it up with the costume crew, challenge one of the strongmen to an arm-wrestling match.

… That actually sounded way more entertaining that actually doing what he was supposed to.

Kiyoko strides in with her bag slung over her shoulder. Just in time, she wraps her arm around Takahiro’s neck to keep him from bothering the strongmen.

“Good afternoon to you too.” He grins up at her.

Kiyoko sighs. “We should stretch a little longer today. Neither of us trained yesterday.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Takahiro plops himself down on the mat and starfishes. “So why are you running late today, huh?” He peers at her devilishly and raises a suggestive brow.

Kiyoko is unfazed as she takes off her shoes and zips them in her bag. “I was on a call with my father. He wishes you well.”

“Ah. Tell him I said ‘hello’ and ‘no, I won’t marry your daughter’ next time you talk, okay?”

With a rueful smile Kiyoko ties up her hair into a firm bun and rolls out her shoulders. “I will be sure to let him know, for the hundredth time.”

Takahiro grins back, ignoring that niggling twinge in his chest at the thought of marriage. A long time ago, that was the plan. Marry Kiyoko, tour together with the cirque whenever hired and whenever they had down time, return to his mother’s acrobatics studio to teach in Japan. Maybe one day settle down, buy a comfortable home, have children.

He _wanted_ that. Touring was fun, yes, and he definitely wouldn’t tire of it soon, but sometimes he just wanted more. The stability of slowing down, living a home-body life, being close with someone in that genuine and intimate way.

Except Kiyoko loved him like a brother, and has long drawn the line between them. Takahiro knows why, they couldn’t make each other happy in that way. But Kiyoko’s father still always brings it up, still always reminds them both that they have each other for marriage. That they’re perfect for one another, that if Takahiro doesn’t propose he’d might as well just die sad and alone.

It’s never going to happen though, no matter how much Takahiro wants to love someone like that. It’s just not possible with Kiyoko, and it’s not as if he has any other prospects while on tour.

Takahiro pulls his legs together and stretches by grabbing each foot, working the muscles loose in his back. Man, he was incredibly tense. Yesterday’s rest day honestly would’ve done him more good had he just stretched a bit instead of lounging around the hotel all day.

He closes his eyes, focusing on each muscle group as he rolls through the stretches. He pulls up the steady trance of feeling his body out, of sensing where he needs to pull more to pop the tension. Breathing steadily as he pushes his body’s maximums in flexibility, Takahiro numbs himself to distractions as he runs through the routine.

His nose feels stuffed up though. The stinging in his cheek returns.

He wipes at his nose with the back of his hand, but it’s dry. The floor beneath him isn’t the training mats, instead it’s hardwood. Whipping his head up, Takahiro isn’t in the studio any longer, but a bedroom.

He straightens, body tensing in alarm. _What the hell?_ Against the bedroom door a young man stands, his head pressed to the wood and his fist clenched onto the knob. He’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and Takahiro doesn’t notice much else when he sees the young man’s shoulders hitch in a sob.

“Stupid, I’m so stupid.”

Ah, he knows this voice. The one who was slapped.

Something flutters through the forefront of his mind, flashes of memories. Takahiro remembers awards, straight A’s, a GPA to graduate top of the class. He remembers speaking to distinguished people, shaking hands and smiling to charm the classroom. Shit, he even remembers equations Takahiro’s sure he’s never seen in his life before.

 _Liar_ , he thinks, _you aren’t stupid._

The young man’s shoulders loosen and Takahiro blinks, only to find himself still bent over in the studio in the middle of a stretch.

Yeah, he’s slowly going insane.

 

Kiyoko doesn’t speak to him as they leave the studio, many hours later.

He’s grateful that she’s not antagonizing him, but it’s a tense silence. One resounding with the whispers and his very own cocktail of guilt and frustration.

Takahiro hadn’t managed to shake off that strange feeling inside his head before they went on stage. He was distracted, and it showed. It wasn’t as if he could turn off the whispers, or even ignore them. The sounds just amplified regardless of his will. Not to mention he tensed up again in the middle of their act, muscles bunching so tight in his shoulder that Takahiro was sure he would’ve pulled something if he hadn’t been more careful.

He’d been chewed out by the show director, the trainer, and tech coordinator. And now Kiyoko was giving him the silent treatment to spare his feelings, but inevitably making him feel even more terrible.

It was just an off day.

That was it.

Nothing freakishly crazy that would impede his entire career, no. Nothing like that.

Takahiro sighs and rubs at his forehead again. His headache was getting worse.

They make it back to the hotel, a classic, brick building with charming French influences. Takahiro stands outside the front wall and reshoulders his bag. He needs a burning hot shower and a really strong drink.

He parts with Kiyoko in the foyer, sheepishly saying goodbye.

“I’ll see you for dinner?” She adjusts her glasses with a knuckle.

Takahiro scrubs at the back of his neck, “I dunno, was thinking I’d go out and relax tonight.”

At her pointed look, he rephrases: “I need to get utterly plastered after today.”

Kiyoko sighs and turns to go. “Text me where you’ll be and don’t leave with any strangers.”

“Will do!” He saunters down the hall, ignoring Kiyoko’s worried stare boring into the back of his head. Honestly, it was as if she was more interested in being his mother than his friend sometimes.

Vaguely irritated, Takahiro bounds up the three flights of stairs to his room and plunges the key in the lock. Yeah, it would never work between them.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, he’s stripping off his clothes. The room is compact so he doesn’t have far to walk to get to the bathroom. He turns the knob of the shower to its highest setting, still peeling off his socks as he tries not to trip and bash his head into the counter.

At least he didn’t have to focus on his own problems. To be honest, although he was frustrated with them, the whispers have been very intriguing.

_“Hey, Hey, Hey, you’re still up?”_

_“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep. You’re getting back late.”_

_“Yup! Kuroo and I were trying to combine doughnuts with doughnut holes and we lost track of time.”_

Takahiro snorts and shakes his head. That idea was absolutely genius.

_“Genius. Did you two glue them together or what?”_

_“Nah, Kuroo had to practice his suturing so we stitched them.”_

_“Of course you did. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?”_

Takahiro grins as he tests the water with his hand and hastily retreats. He turns down the temperature a bit so it doesn’t scald him. He forgot how hot hotel water runs. After a few moments and some hesitant temperature testing again, Takahiro pushes the curtain aside. Jumping in, he lets the water cascade down his face and chest, massaging away all the sweat.

_“Well I’m off to bed! See you tomorrow!”_

“Good night, sleep well.” Takahiro hums, thinking it is a little odd someone would be off to bed before dinner. Or maybe the whispers are foreign. He figures the time difference between him in France and his mother in Japan and thinks it should be about midnight there. That would make more sense. The voices sound roughly around his age. Midnight wouldn’t be stretching the boundaries.

It is quiet for a few blessed minutes in his brain. Enough for Takahiro to finish showering and towel off, padding back into the room to dig through the closet. He pulls out a clean pair of briefs and some faded skinny jeans. Wriggling his way into both, Takahiro crinkles his nose at the few hanging shirts in the closet.

Was tonight a bar night or a club night? He pulls on the sleeve of a dress shirt, then eyes a tank top. Eventually he figures that tonight is definitely a club night and yanks the tank top off the hanger to toss it on. After a few minutes of prep, tousling his hair dry, changing out his piercings into something that matches it outfit, Takahiro pulls on his shoes. His wallet and keys are stashed, and he grabs a jacket for what little modesty he decides to preserve before hitting the club.

The club is anything but modest. The burlesque joint down the Red-light District draws the riled-up crowds into the building like moths to a flame. Half-naked drunks hobble on unsteady legs up and down the sidewalks, streetwalkers push their prey into alleyways and cheap motels, the more sober recline back to have a smoke.

Takahiro enters the club with a hardly-suppressed grin. The bass of the techno-pop jolts through his bones, the strobe lights dizzying and making him feel intoxicated even though he hadn’t had a single drink yet.

Which, needless to say, was quickly corrected.

He’s in the crowd now, hours later, thrust deep into the mass of gyrating bodies and sweat and glitter of the club goers. How long has he been here? How many drinks has he had? Takahiro can’t remember, but it feels nice. It feels free and exhilarating and his mistakes of the day are blessedly washed away in the drunkenness.

Someone is pushing up against his back, hands grabbing onto his hips Takahiro rolls his head, the ecstasy of the music and alcohol loosening his muscles better than any stretch, his inhibitions of strangers touching him blurred in the haze.

 _It feels so good_. And the music drowns out the meaningless murmur of the whispers in his mind. Takahiro grinds his hips back against the stranger, arms reaching back to trace against their outline that’s obviously male. The guy noses against Takahiro’s neck, his pulse thundering in time to the music. The hands travel up and down his abdomen, and Takahiro is actually quite smug feeling the fingers stutter over his body, over the firm lines of his abdomen, the piercing in his navel. There’s a sigh against his neck and he chuckles breathlessly.

Whirling around, Takahiro isn’t deterred by the guy’s looks. He’s sexy enough, pupils blown wide, and hair ruffled where Takahiro brushes his hands through it. The guy whispers against his neck, grabbing his ass and pulling Takahiro closer to feel the heat between them.

Takahiro’s eyes flutter, mouth slightly open to taste the smoke in the air, to inhale the music and get swept away. He opens his eyes enough to see the mass of bodies around them, undulating in stuttering, drunken rhythms. It feels like he’s lost at sea, floating along in waves of pleasure and excitement.

His eyes catch on someone, anchored. A man stands amidst the rolling crowd, eye’s locked on Takahiro in shock. He’s not in club attire, hell, he’s not even in actual clothes. It looks like the man is wearing pajamas, flashing in and out of sight as the lights fluctuate. The man breaks eye contact for only a moment, eyes skirting around the club in confusion until finding Takahiro again, a blush coasting up his face.

Takahiro grins against his dance partner’s neck, and lowers his gaze. The man is beet red now, shoulder’s tensed and hunched near his ears, but Takahiro feels that intense gaze unable to be ripped away. Takahiro knows that feeling so intimately, so intensely, it feels like his own.

It feels like a dream as he watches himself grind against his dance partner’s leg, gasping against the pressure, eyes lidded heavily and unfocused in desire.

The man blinks, the anchor is gone.

Takahiro is adrift in the sea of bodies yet again.

 

  

* * *

  _6:03 A.M. – Towada Student Apartments_

 

Hajime reels back and slams his bedroom door shut, the sounds of the club and the phantom vision, dissolving to nothingness at the click of the lock.

He takes one step back, then two.

With shaking hands, Hajime opens his desk drawer and pulls out the pamphlet Kuroo had slipped beneath his door two days ago.

_“Kitasato University_

_Student Counseling Center”_

 

 


End file.
